Sounds of Silence
by stepharp13
Summary: Work in progress - eventual Zibbs. The team goes undercover to root out a terrorist supporting Hamas. Gibbs and Ziva discover a few things about one another.
1. Mission: Reasonably Feasible

Author's Note: I am only going to go through this once, because I think at this time it pretty much goes without saying anyway. I do not own NCIS, I do not own rights to the characters, this story is fictional, and I am not making any money off of it.

Spoilers up to and including Season 10, Episode 14.

"For how long?" asked Tony, leaning forward in his chair.

"That depends, DiNozzo. If you all do your job, it could be less than a month. If you slow everyone down asking questions that don't matter, could be a lot longer."

The director's clipped words only served to heighten the already tangible tension in the room. Tony leaned back slowly, slightly resenting the rebuke, but not unsurprised by it. Director Vance never would have been considered the most personable man around in the past, but Jackie's death seemed to have removed the softer side of the man from him completely.

"When?" Gibbs' no nonsense inquiry broke the uneasy silence filling the room.

"You're moving in Friday. Relocation for Agent David's work with the nonprofit organization. The house has been secured. McGee will be going in as a electric company employee Thursday to install audio/video in the main rooms." Vance directed his gaze toward McGee as he finished this statement, who nodded affirmatively in response.

"We should be all set, boss. It's only a few basic security cameras on the outside porches and doors. Shouldn't be enough to tip off Ferdinand. It's all garden variety security stuff for these rich guys. These cameras are as common as an ADT system in that neighborhood." Seeing the look on Ziva's face, McGee quickly added, "Home security system."

Ziva inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement, then turned her attention to back to Vance as well.

"Our covers?" Her tone was all business, the complete lack of inflection ensuring that no emotion was revealed with the question.

Abby stepped forward, having been hanging back at the door for the past several minutes while Vance covered the details of the case. She handed Gibbs and Ziva each a manila folder and cast a nervous look at Tony and McGee before speaking.

"Master Gunnery Sergeant Leigh Howell, and his wife, Keila Howell, nee Salzmann." Abby looked to Gibbs. "You're a retired Marine, 28 years in the service. You and Ziv—Keila met during your last deployment at a conference in Israel. You," Abby now turned to face Ziva, who was leafing through the passport she had discovered inside the folder, "Are one of the founders of the nonprofit organization Breath of Air, which has, um, been collecting donations to work toward peace along the Gaza strip." At this, Ziva let out a sound that could probably only be classified as a scoff.

"Really," Ziva replied, trying and failing to restrain herself from an eye roll, "As if peace can be bought."

The back of his chair facing the wall and allowing him an overview of the room, Gibbs allowed himself a slight half smile at Ziva's statement of the obvious.

"Yeah, well," Abby continued, clearly thrown off her speech by the interruption, "the organization is a good cover for sending cash to that area, so it should catch Ferdinand's interest. The details are all in there." Abby gestured to the folders in their hands.

"DiNozzo will be your driver. McGee will be your butler." Vance intoned, as Abby passed folders to the other agents. "A few of the men from the warehouse were your moving company. Everything is set up already. Your car will pick you both up Friday morning at nine hundred hours. DiNozzo," Vance turned in his chair.

"Yes, sir?"

Vance tossed a pair of car keys through the air, which Tony plucked out easily.

"Directions to pick it up are in your file."

No one missed the dismissal cue from the director, and with it, they rose and exited the room. Abby led the way, with McGee and Tony close behind. Ziva, leaving after Tony, held the door questioningly for Gibbs, who shook his head. With a shrug, she let it fall closed behind her.

Gibbs waited for the click of the door before turning to face Vance. For a long moment, the two men said nothing. Vance broke the gaze off, beginning to shuffle paperwork about on his desk. When Gibbs still did not leave, the director looked up again, to find his eyes met by the piercing blue stare of the man across from him. Inwardly, he sighed.

"Special Agent Gibbs," he bit out, roughly stuffing a folder into the filing cabinet to his side, "Can I help you?"

For another moment, the room was silent.

"You ready for an undercover mission, Leon?"

"I am the director of NCIS, Agent Gibbs. I have run _hundreds _of undercover missions in my time." Vance stared back, knowing that this technique never worked with Gibbs, but feeling it was worth a try anyway. Gibbs waited a moment before replying.

"Not what I asked."

Vance rolled his chair back and looked pointedly at the door. With a slight raise of his eyebrows, Special Agent Gibbs left the room.


	2. Ave, Caesar!

A/N: For all the reasons I do not get paid for this, see chapter one. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first bit, this is the first fanfic I have ever liked enough to post. There will be semi-regular updates, so keep an eye out!

The team members packed up their desks. Friday was only four days away, and with all of them expecting to spend an indeterminate amount of time undercover, there were a great deal of projects and paperwork to be secured until their returns (or forwarded to other personnel to handle in their absences). Though they had been informed the serious nature of the mission they were about to embark on, the team continued their usually friendly banter in a way that only a group who knows each other really well can.

"McGeek," Tony called, pulling McGee's attention from the binder he was rifling through, "I bet you have one of those butler costumes already handy. I always thought you have the kind of face that would make you the perfect usher at my wedding."

"Actually," McGee replied, locking his top filing cabinet, "I'm not sure you're one to talk. Have you ever seen the hats they give chauffeurs?"

Ziva laughed, as Tony squinted slightly as he thought this through.

"I can handle the hat. I'm chauffeuring for Gibbs. Think of it like this: I'm like Jackie Chan in _The Tuxedo_. You're Emilio Lopez in _Mr. Deeds_. With that foot fetish thing?"

Tony face contorted as Gibbs' slap landed solidly on the top of his head.

"You implying something, DiNozzo?"

"No, boss."

"You know, Tony," said Ziva, putting a few folders into her bag, "I think the best part of you being our driver is that chauffeurs are seen, and not heard."

"Here's to that," Gibbs stated, shutting off the lamp on his desk and picking up his badge and gun. He looked around at the team. "When you're all set, go home and get to know yourselves better." With that, Gibb's left the room.

"I have some things I need to drop off to Abby on my way out. See you guys tomorrow." McGee headed for the door. Tony turned to Ziva.

"So, married to the big guns. This is going to be just like—"

"Just like an undercover operation, not some movie."

Tony tried another tactic.

"So, just the four of us at home sweet home. Hope you don't like to go to sleep early. I can't wait to see how Mila Kunis looks on a 90" television screen. It's a good thing, to be undercover rich." He was smiling now, grinning wider when he saw the look of disgust on Ziva's face.

"Really, is that all you think about?" Ziva powered down her computer and picked up her duffel bag. Tony looked thoughtful.

"No. Sometimes I think that I can't wait to see how Olivia Wilde will look on a 90" television screen." He smirked. Ziva made a face, then surprised him by giving him a full-on grin.

"I see you have not read very far into your file yet then."

"What's that now?" Tony grabbed his backpack off the back of his chair, following her into the elevator.

"If you read your file," Ziva began, as the elevator descended, "You would know that you and McGee will be staying in the guest house." The elevator came to a halt, and there was the tell-tale _*ding* _before the doors slid open and Ziva stepped out. She glanced back to see him staring at her, with his mouth slightly agape. She could not resist driving the point home, and as she headed for her car, she flashed a bright smile and added,

"Have fun with your new roommate, Tony. I know you cannot wait to see—what is it called? "Starcraft"? On a 90" screen."


	3. Premonition

A/N: This is a short chapter - should have another one up shortly. Thank you all for the reviews so far! Along with not owning NCIS, I do not own any bands and or record companies. Therefore, please note that the song playing in this chapter is "Black Eye" by the Newlydeads.

_MUSIC: "W__hen I was young I'd sit and swing in the sunshine, then I'd fall and cry… I'd love to play with the pretty things that I'd find__, a__nd roll my eyes…"_

Abby was lost in her own world that evening, the Newlydeads playing on her stereo in the background doing nothing to dull the anxious feeling she was getting about the upcoming mission and her friends being danger, yet again. When Ducky had stopped in the lab to drop off the teams cover identities, she had been struck with an undue sensation of foreboding. She had said as much to him.

"Abigail," he had said, taking her hand, "It is quite all right to worry about them."

"I know, Ducky, okay? But this is different, sort of, and I worry about them all the time, but this feels more like, I don't know, a premonition of some type, something more ominous, I just have a bad feeling that one of them will get hurt, and—" Abby had begun to let an edge of hysteria creep into her voice, and Ducky had interrupted her before it had continued.

"Now, now then, that is quite enough of that," he replied, patting her hand again. "Tony, Ziva and Timothy are all capable of handling themselves in these situations, and I don't need to tell you that Jethro has done this before. Besides, I spent a great deal of time working on those covers and they are perfect personality fits. No harm will come to them."

Abby had nodded, her eyes watery, but a smile playing across her face.

"Now, if you will excuse me my dear, I have another dreadful follow-up appointment with the cardiologist." With a last reassuring squeeze to her palm, Ducky had exited the lab.

Now, sitting in her room, she picked Bert up from the coffin and gave him a squeeze, finding as always that it was almost impossible to do so and not smile.

"You know what?" She said to the hippo, putting him down on the bed and heading to the closet, "They're all my friends, and there's no telling how long this will take, even if nothing happens. So there's no reason to not go spend some time with them now." She pulled a long black jacket off the hanger, grabbed her computer bag, and headed out the door.


	4. Jonathan Wright

Tony had run a few errands on his way home from work, so it was almost half-past six when he came through the door. Flipping light switches on as he went through, he dropped the day's mail on the table and hooked his jacket around a dining room chair. Grabbing the Styrofoam box of chicken wings he'd picked up on the way home, he made his way into the living room and flipped on the news. The reporter on screen was just wrapping up a traffic report.

"Finally, if you're taking 295 south this afternoon, be prepared for some major delays resulting from an earlier accident, two lanes are still blocked off. And now to Jim with the weather, Jim?"

As Jim droned on about the highs and lows for the coming week, Tony picked up the folder he'd put down next to his plate, which was slowing amassing a mountain of chicken bones. Flipping the cover, he began to read.

Jonathan Wright, DOB 11AUG1969. _Well, at least I didn't get any older, _he thought wryly. He skimmed through the basic fact sheet, most of it not being news to him. _After all, they can't exactly change my height._ He read through the brief sketch of his background – apparently, he'd been the only child of middle-class parents, both of whom were killed in a car accident when he was in his early twenties. After dropping out of college, he'd gone on to work a number of transportation related jobs ranging from airport shuttles to limos before landing a private chauffeur job for a Mrs. Eugene Herald, who had passed away a few months ago. In the bio, Ducky had indicated that Leigh Howell was a friend of the Herald family, and that Jonathan had been offered a position largely based on his performance there.

When they had first gone to see Ducky in autopsy, after the found the body that had led to this mission, initial discussion about the undercover work had Tony acting as one half of the extraordinarily well-to-do power couple moving into Ferdinand's neighborhood. With his background, it seemed that Tony would have been the easiest fit into the role. As their investigation proceeded, Ducky had stated that he felt a man like Ferdinand would have a much easier time relating to and trusting Gibbs than Tony. Tony could recall the conversation now…

"I don't believe that he is going 'respond' to Agent DiNozzo, Jethro." Leading them to his desk in autopsy, Ducky had shuffled through the cover identities he was building, finally finding Ferdinand's profile underneath them. "Lawrence Ferdinand is not a man who takes youngsters under his wing. He is a man who respects other 'seasoned' men who exist in his upper-echelon society. If we move Tony into his neighborhood, our target is more than likely to simply perceive him as too green to be of any use."

"You mean, he is too young?" Ziva asked, looking to Ducky for clarification.

"You can't be sending McGee in then. He'll be getting ID'd at every ritzy party they go to—"

"Oh, well, thank you Tony. At least I can act my age." McGee had retorted.

"Enough. What's your solution, Duck?" Gibbs' first word had silenced Tony and McGee's mocking of one another, and Ducky removed his glasses as he replied,

"Well Jethro, I believe it's rather simple really. It will just have to be you."

Gibbs had nodded, then, in traditional Gibbs style, left autopsy without saying another word.

That had been nearly two weeks ago. This morning, when Vance had abruptly announced that the entire operation was a go, they had all been somewhat surprised. Usually, undercover missions involved a lot more building up until the actual assignment, and Tony had almost thought of asking the director if he was sure he wasn't making an error in judgment by rushing into it.

_Yeah, right. _He smirked to himself, amused with the thought. _That will be the day I decide that I don't really want to work for NCIS anyway._ Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. Chicken wings now reduced to a pile of bones and greasy napkins, he picked up the remote, intending to check the movie channel for updates. Just as his hand landed on the remote, the picture on the television changed to show the burned out building where they had discovered the body that had first brought them to Ferdinand. Tony turned up the volume, curious what the news had picked up on the story.

"And _still _no word yet on what caused the overnight fire in a warehouse building on New York Avenue. Authorities have confirmed that the body inside the building is that of Navy Chief Petty Officer Kevin Branson, who was reported missing from his home on May 19th." The TV focus moved off the building and to a still shot of Officer Branson and his family, a department store picture taken for Christmas. In it, Branson sat with his arm around a petite brunette that Tony now knew to be his wife, Kristin. The couple's two sons, Kevin Jr., 15, and Kyle, 11, sat in the front of the frame.

"Mrs. Branson declined to speak to us in an interview, but did say that she was thankful for the support of local authorities. Although federal law enforcement has been working on the case, they have declined to rule on whether or not the fire was accidental." With that brief overview, the reporter was on to something else – a PETA protest demonstration or the like, and Tony sunk back into the couch.

The team knew the reason no information was being released about the fire. One, because it very definitely was not accidental, and two, no one wanted to drag Kevin Branson's name through the mud before finding out why he was making a bomb. Tony picked up the food box and plate off the coffee table and carried them back the kitchen, reviewing the scene in his head.

_What were you up to, Kev? _He wondered, dropping the items into the trash. _We know you ordered the parts, and we know you were putting it together. We also know that someone left you on the floor and set fire to the warehouse. They tried to make it look like an accident, as if you blew yourself up trying to make a bomb… but most of your materials are missing. Who took them? Ferdinand? Another person working for him? Where are they now?_

Shaking his head with the futility of asking himself these questions when he had no new information, Tony retired back to the living room. The entire team would be debating these questions still tomorrow, and today had been a long day.


	5. Timothy Jacques

A/N: Hints of McAbby, but intended as a friendly relationship.

McGee had already read his file, complete with all of Ducky's "informational" research regarding what it was, exactly, that butlers were expected to do. As Timothy Jacques, the 38 year old butler with 15 years on the job, he would be expected to be very comfortable with his responsibilities. The folder also included directions to a staffing uniform shop, where he could pick up his 'butler attire' under his new name. The rest of Mr. Jacques background was markedly uninteresting, most of his time prior to earning the butler title has been spent in various groundskeeper positions, before coming into the house to do some time as a cook.

_Ah, the irony_, McGee had thought to himself, as he had called in his take-out order.

Now, nearly twenty minutes later, he was seated on the couch, comfortable in sweatpants and a t-shirt, mashing the buttons on his Playstation 3 controller, when the doorbell rang. Pleasantly surprised, McGee headed for the door. He was starving, and the Chinese food place was rarely this fast. Which was why, when he cracked open the door with his headset on, the controller in one hand and a twenty in the other, he was rather more surprised to see Abby standing on the doorstep.

"Hey!" She said brightly. "Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure, Abbs," McGee stuffed the twenty in his pocket and pulled the headset down around his neck, opening the door all the way to allow her to get in with all the packages she was carrying. The strong smell of Chinese food followed her in, wafting up from the brown bag she set on the table.

"You didn't have to bring me dinner," he said, puzzled. "I just ordered from the Asian Bistro—"

"I know, where do you think I got this?" She reached into the bag and pulled out the combo platter he had ordered earlier in the evening, complete with extra egg roll. She then dropped her own meal onto the table and began dispensing plastic utensils, paper plates, and the little packets of soy sauce between them.

"How did you—" he began.

"Please, McGee, give me a little credit. What else would you be eating on a Monday night? I was on my way over told them I would pick your order up."

_Hmm,_ thought McGee, _Maybe I really am getting too predictable._

"Well, I'm not complaining. This is a definite improvement over the normal delivery guy." He dug into the pork fried rice, grabbing a napkin off the table. "But that still doesn't explain why you were on your way here."

"Oh! I just figured with you all going under for god knows how long, we could get together for dinner first. I called Ziva, but she didn't answer. And I checked in with Tony, but he was busy running errands."

"So, what?" McGee said teasingly, "I was your last choice? And why don't I get a call?"

Abby laughed.

"You were last because I already knew what you were doing tonight. And you don't get a call because I wasn't going to let you back out on me. I brought my computer, and I figured we could play whatever game you have scheduled for tonight."

McGee shrugged, slightly embarrassed that she knew him that well. She misread his expression, looking at the controller on the table.

"Or I can just do my thing, if you're busy with something else!" Abby put down her fork. "I didn't mean to impose, McGee, I'm just worried about you guys and I miss you all when you're all on these types of assignments and gone for weeks and—"

Now it was McGee's turn to laugh.

"Abbs, Abbs, calm down. That sounds great. And it's _Skyrim_."

Abby smiled broadly, and McGee returned it with a grin of his own.

"Thanks," she said.

They finished off dinner, talking at length about work, their colleagues, and various technology. When the plates were cleared, McGee stood and brought them to trash, while Abby set up her computer. Although he wasn't sure if he should really admit it, it was nice to have company. Crossing back to the living room, he noticed the fortune cookie that had fallen out of the bag and onto the table. He broke it open, stuck both halves in his mouth and read the fortune as he sat down at his computer, opening the game.

_**We can't help everyone. But everyone can help someone.**_

McGee looked over at Abby, whose earlier stress seemed to have evaporated. She was already fully engaged in her computer, and did not see him. He smiled inwardly. _Yes, _ he thought, exchanging the Playstation headphones for his computer set, _everyone can help someone._


	6. In Restless Dreams

A/N: After the next few, ethe chapters will be a bit longer as we get into the actual story. It may be a few days between updates. Please do not think I have abandoned the story - I just want to make sure it comes out right!

Ziva rolled over and opened her eyes. The bright red numbers on her alarm clock proclaimed that is was nearly midnight. With a sigh, she tossed back the covers and stepped out of the bed. It seemed sleep would be just as elusive tonight as every other night. Already dressed in yoga pants and a tank (early Mossad training refused to let her go to bed in any condition other than ready-to-roll), she picked up her gun off the nightstand and walked toward the kitchen. She stood in the doorframe, considering her options.

She had cleaned her gun last night. Sharpened her throwing knife collection the night before. She could make another cup of tea, but she was starting to question if she could really live off of the stuff. She briefly toyed with the idea of another run, but she had already done a few evening laps earlier in hopes of getting to sleep. Her eyes landed on the car keys hanging by the door. A drive tended to calm her nerves (though, according to her teammates, that is not what it did for them).

_Why not?_ She thought to herself. _After all, I have already been lying in bed for two hours. Another hour on the road cannot hurt. _Mind made up, she picked up the gun, took the keys and grabbed a sweatshirt on her way out the door.

The Mini was parked right outside her apartment. Though she remained on alert, she saw and heard nothing alarming as she made her way to the vehicle. She pulled away from the curb with no real destination in mind, racing down route 50 toward the Navy Yard, pulling off at the exit and idly taking the car in widening circles around the neighborhood. As she came down a particular street, she slowed, and Gibbs' house rose up to meet her.

Although the first and second floors were dark, a dull light still shined out of the windows on the ground, from the basement. She pulled the car into the driveway and sat for a few minutes, wondering if he had simply forgotten to turn the lights out. Regardless, it was not really appropriate to show up unexpectedly at anyone's house after midnight. She had almost made up her mind to head home when the violent buzz of her cell phone in the cup holder made her start. She did a slight double-take at the name on the display, and then picked up.

"David," she answered.

"Gonna stay there all night?" Gibbs' voice echoed in the dark car.

With a slight laugh, Ziva replied, "Just on my way in." Gibbs hung up, and she shut off the ignition. The door to the house was unlocked, as always, and there truly were no lights on the first floor. Fortunately, the light shining up from the basement was easy to detect, and she made her to it and down the stairs with ease. Gibbs was sitting on a stool in a white t-shirt and jeans, sanding a piece on his boat, looking for all the world like it was everyday that his agents dropped in on him unannounced during the wee hours of the morning.

_Of course, _she supposed, _in his case, we really do drop in unannounced at all hours of the morning. _She took the other stool in the corner without saying a word, as she was not really sure why she had come anyway. After a moment, he put down the sandpaper block, got up, and walked over. The whiskey was already out, and if the mason jar next to it was any indication, he'd already been into it once this evening. He picked up another jar, this one filled with screws, and dumped it on the workbench. Uncorking the whiskey, he poured them each about a jigger and handed her a jar. She stared at it a moment, then they each took a drink. He set his on the bench and sat down across from her.

"Wedding jitters?" He asked, allowing the half-smile on his face.

"What?" Ziva replied, confused, before catching on. "Oh, no. And you?"

"Been there, done that."

"Right," she said, and took another sip. "I could not sleep."

"Figured that out, Ziver." He took a drink himself while he studied her expression. "Not the mission." It was more of a statement then a question. Ziva shook her head.

"No," she replied crisply. "It is not the mission. I do not believe we will have much trouble." This she meant, as it was certainly not the worst undercover assignment she had ever been given. Playing the trophy wife of a well-to-do military man in a multi-million dollar home… it could hardly be considered a hardship, even if her first few missions had not left her simply wishing for an assignment in which she had running water. Israel was a very advanced place, but a number of countries that her Mossad operations had sent her to were not. No, it was not about the mission.

"Eli?" Gibbs had been fairly certain of the reason his agent had come to visit in the dead of night, but he still felt compelled to ask. Rule #8: Never take anything for granted. Ziva did not respond immediately, but the slight tensing of her shoulders spoke volumes.

"I…I think so." Her voice was unsure, not wracked with emotion, but not stable either. "I cannot… I cannot stop thinking about what I said to him, the last thing I ever said to him, before I went outside to call you."

Gibbs waited for her to continue, knowing that he could not push her into revealing anything anyway. Watching him, Ziva took a deep breath.

"I told him… That some sins, his sins… are… were… too great to be forgiven."

Ziva waited for a response from Gibbs, hoping he would tell her what she thought she needed to hear, that her father would have understood she spoke out of anger, that regardless of what he had done in his life, and what she had said about it, they were still blood. Which is why Gibbs' next words surprised her.

"Some sins are." His tone was matter-of-fact, and he chased the statement with the remainder of his whiskey. She looked up from her drink, her brown eyes meeting his blue ones. He shrugged.

"Can't change the past. Can only change the future."

Ziva dropped her gaze and nodded.

"When I… think about what he has done…" Ziva's voice was barely audible, "I think that he must have deserved to die."

Gibbs sat very still, sensing that Ziva was confessing to him something she was almost afraid to admit to herself.

"I have," her voice wavered, though her face showed no sign that tears were imminent, "Nightmares… about Somalia. About my mother. About Tali. About…" Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Ari. My father…" her voice grew stronger, "My father was the cause of much of that. Yet, I cannot stop wishing… that I could tell him I am sorry for what I said."

Ziva drained the rest of her glass.

"You know," Gibbs began. He leaned forward, his proximity forcing her to meet his eyes. "You can forgive the man, without forgiving his actions."

She nodded.

"I know. But I do not."

There seemed little left to say after that. Softly, he reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder. They sat that way, for several minutes, neither of them speaking. Finally, Ziva rose, inclining her head towards Gibbs.

"Thank you. I should go."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows slightly, and Ziva made her way out of the house.

Gibbs watched as she ascended the stairs, rounded the corner and disappeared onto the first floor. He listened as her feet made their way down the foyer, then the front door opened and shut. The Mini came to life outside, the headlights shining through the basement and sending flickering shadows across the room as the car backed up and turned out of the drive. Then, all was quiet. Gibbs leaned back on the stool until his head touched the wall. Suddenly, he felt very drained. Moving the whiskey back to the cupboard, he headed up the stairs, flicked off the light and found his way to the couch by instinct. He sank into it, firmly ordering himself not think about any actions that he wished he could undo, and completely failing to do so.

Ziva parked back in front of her apartment just before two. She checked her mirrors before exiting the car, and made her way to the door with one hand resting on her gun. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened, and within a few seconds she was inside the house again. Acting on autopilot, she cleared each room before returning to the bedroom and sliding the gun under her pillow. She did not question the usefulness of these actions in her own apartment—more than once, being proactively cautious had meant the difference between her life and death. Kicking off her shoes, she dropped onto the bed, and for the first time in nearly two months, fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


End file.
